Ain't Scared of Lightning
by Wynn
Summary: Dean thinks he's the lettuce and other assorted musings from the life and times of Dean Winchester. Spoilers to 01.11


Title: Ain't Scared of Lightning

Author: Wynn

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Supernatural_. They are owned by Eric Kripke, the WB, etc. and are used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only. Please don't sue. I have no money.

AN: Title from the Tom McRae song _I Ain't Scared of Lightning_.

Ain't Scared of Lightning (The Life and Times of Dean Winchester)

By: Wynn

Dean thinks he's the lettuce. If his father's the bacon, all tough and brittle and burnt around the edges, and Sam's the tomato, sort of squishy except for that one part of skin that can't be cut no matter which knife you pull from the drawer, then that makes Dean the lettuce, there to keep the bacon and the tomato apart, because, really, who wants to eat squishy, brittle bacon and pig-flavored tomato?

Nobody.

So Dean's the lettuce. Or sometimes the bread. He alternates depending on which state he's in. Because if he's at least the bread, then that means he can sometimes be toasted instead of a limp piece of wannabe cabbage all the time. And toasted always trumps limp in the grand scheme of life.

Always.

…………

"Luke?"

"Yes."

"Luke fucking Skywalker? Are you serious?"

"Yes, Dean. Luke fucking Skywalker."

"You seriously believe that he can kick both Neo and Aragorn's collective asses?"

"He's the only one of them with superpowers. Of course he's gonna win."

"Dude, Neo can fly. How's that not super?"

"He can only fly inside the Matrix. Outside he's just like everyone else."

"Wrong, nimrod. What about when he stopped those machines from killing him and Trinity in the second flick? That wasn't in the Matrix, Sam."

"But it was still machines connected to the Matrix. Luke and Aragorn aren't part of the Matrix, Dean."

"But Luke _is_ part machine."

"Part non-Matrix machine."

"But still a machine."

"Fine. Luke cuts off his mechanical hand with his lightsaber and _then _he kicks Neo's ass with his non-Matrix-related superpowers."

"I think I liked you better before you went to college."

…………

Dean prefers Winchesters. He knows some brands, Mossberg, Remington for example, have better guns, ones easier to load and easier to shoot, ones with better range and superior accuracy. But it seems sacrilegious not to go with a gun that bears his name, and in his line of work, Dean tries to avoid sacrilege whenever possible.

So he uses Winchesters. The 1300 model with a modified pistol grip, usually. An eight shot, single barrel, pump action shotgun capable of firing three shots in little over half a second. This excites Dean more than it probably should, but he's a guy and guys dig guns.

Except, that is, for his brother.

Sammy hates guns and always has, ever since he was little. He'll use them when has to, but he prefers knives, which, for Dean, are nice and shiny but no match for a good solid gun. Or even a shitty, rickety gun. Hell, Dean would use a BB gun over a knife, but Sam isn't Dean, or Dad, as he keeps saying again and again and again, so he likes knives.

But Sam also likes soccer better than football, so Dean can't say much about the kid's taste, especially when it concerns something as sacred as weapon selection.

So Dean uses guns. He fills them with rock salt usually, good for the living and the dead, but there are these rounds that he picked up from Caleb the last time he was in California that explode into fireballs when he shoots them.

Dragon's Breath, Caleb called them.

They also excite Dean more than they probably should, but, seriously, shotgun shells that explode into fucking_ fireballs_. Who wouldn't get excited about that?

Besides his brother, that is, of course.

…………

Words. Words. Words.

More words.

Picture of a goat. Some squiggly lines.

More words.

A pentagram. A priest. Another goat.

Turn page.

Sigh.

More words.

Research _sucked_.

…………

"All in."

"Bold move, Sammy."

"It's Sam. And it's not so bold if you've got the cards to back it up. Which I do."

"You do, huh? So why do I have the feeling that you're bluffing?"

"Because you have a shitty hand and you don't want to lose."

"Interesting theory, young Jedi. What makes you think I've got a shitty hand?"

"Maybe the fact that you haven't gone all in to match me yet. You're stalling. You stall when you have shit."

"And you don't chat when you're hand is good. So I guess that means we're both screwed, huh?"

"Why don't you go all in and see?"

"Fine. All in. Turn them over, bluff boy."

"Hate to say I told you so, man, but I told you so. Three sevens."

"Wow, Sam. You certainly told me. Three sevens. That's- that's great. Really great. Really, truly, spectacularly great. In fact, it's just about the best thing ever."

"Any time this century would be nice, Dean."

"Trust me when I say the century will wait for cards like these. Read them and weep, Sammy."

"Fuck."

"Isn't that the most beautiful straight you've ever seen?"

"You have got to be kidding."

"I never kid about cards, Sam. Or about my car. I think two coats of wax should do it this time, don't you think?"

…………

The thing about motels, they're always the same. The same beds, the same stiff sheets, the same pillows and blankets, too thin, too short, and too rough, not like the blankets Dean's mother had, ones soft and thick and big, perfect for room-to-room fort building and early morning burrowing.

Dean hates motels, but he likes the constancy, likes knowing what he'll find when he walks into the next room in the next town in the next state on his never ending journey. Cheap furniture and ugly art, hot water and a broken TV. A place to lie down and stretch out because as much as he loves his baby, the Impala lacks leg room after six hours or so on the road.

It's not much, living in motels all the time, it's not anything, really, but like everything else about Dean's job, it does have its perks. Easy highway access for fast getaways. Close proximity to cheap bars and even cheaper restaurants. A usually lax policy on salt circle remains because, hey, salt's better than used condoms or broken needles left behind by other, not-Dean patrons.

It's not much, this room, this life, but it's as far from a home as Dean can get, and for that, it's enough.

…………

"_This _is Route 10."

"No, it isn't. _That _is."

"Sam, look at the little red thing. What does it say?"

"That says something? I thought you just dropped your pen on the map."

"It says Route 10. The state built a new highway here two years ago and what we're on now is the _old _Route 10. Not the _new_ Route 10. Which is where we need to be."

"Well… you know if you updated your maps every decade or so, this wouldn't have happened."

"The maps are fine. Dad used those maps."

"I'm pretty sure Daniel Boone used the maps."

"And did he get lost?"

"I-"

"Didn't think so."

…………

Jeans in one. Darks in the other. Lights in the third. Some detergent, cold water and Dean's good to go. He knows he could save money by combining some of the loads, but he'd also like his white shirts white and not some funky tie-dye color either, so three loads. Three loads, once washed, once dried, once a month, for twelve months, plus soap and dryer sheets because Sam's a total _girl _and has to have his clothes static free, and also some Shout for the inevitable blood, dirt, and grass stains, and Dean figures he shells out about a hundred bucks a year just to wash his damn clothes.

His and Sam's. Because Dean learned long ago never to let Sam do the laundry, even if it's just his. He came back to their apartment one time when he was eleven and found his brother ankle deep in suds, staring at the washing machine in abject horror. Dean mopped and dried the floor, then pulled the wet laundry from the machine, wincing at the bright red of Sam's soccer uniform all over his favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

He never let Sam near his clothes, or a washing machine, ever again.

So Dean does the laundry while Sam prowls the local Wal-Mart looking for all the essentials: gauze, peroxide, rock salt, beer. Probably a few other things, too, like the whole wheat bagels or whatever the hell Sam likes to eat in the mornings. Weird shit he developed a taste for in California because there was no way in hell Dean ever bought whole wheat anything when they were kids.

Occasionally his brother comes back with something that catches Dean off guard, like the time he handed Dean a can of lighter fluid for his Zippo because Sam had noticed he was out.

So Dean sticks an extra dryer sheet or three into the machines and waits for the clothes to dry.

Sunshine scented, according to the box.

Something that smells like home, according to Dean.

…………

"Shit. Shit, fuck, damn it, _fuck_."

"Dean-"

"I'm going to fucking kill that thing, Sammy, I swear to god."

"You already did. Now sit down. Here, right here. Don't move."

"Not really, _fuck_, an option…"

"You want a drink first?"

"No. Just, just get it over with."

"Okay. I- Lie down."

"You remember how to do this?"

"I, uh, yeah."

"'Uh, yeah?' Christ, Sammy. Way to inspire confidence."

"I remember, Dean. It's just. It's been a while, all right?"

"Go away. Just fucking go. I'll, shit, I'll do it myself."

"The last time you tried to do it yourself you couldn't lift your arm above your head for eight months. Now shut up and don't move."

"All right. Just, damn it, don't force it. Or push it. An easy roll and it should, it should pop back into place."

"Okay. You ready?"

"Yeah… I trust you."

…………

Dean knows he dreams, everyone dreams, but he tries his best to forget his. He doesn't have the time or the energy to sort through the weird, freaky psychobabble his subconscious pulls together on a nightly basis, so he pushes the stray thoughts and images to the back of his mind and forgets them.

Or tries to, anyway.

Sometimes something sticks. A feeling, maybe, or a picture. An entire dream every once in a while. It plants a flag at the edge of his consciousness and haunts him throughout the rest of the day, waving its symbolism and deep significance at him whenever he stops long enough to think about it. Those are the days that Dean knows he could attribute to PMS if he was a girl. He usually chalks them up to caffeine deprivation whenever Sam asks, which, because it's Sam, an anal control freak when he wants to be, is every time Dean wakes up cranky.

He never tells Sam about his dreams. Dean knows they're nothing special, not like Sam's, so talking about them would just be a waste of time.

Sometimes, though, he wonders about them. Wonders why he dreams the things that he does. Like the weird one from three weeks ago where he ate dinner with a monkey while Sam played in the ocean with a mermaid. A monkey and a mermaid. That one didn't just plant a fucking flag at the edge of his consciousness, it built an entire billboard complete with flashing neon lights and a big arrow pointing down that screamed 'Subtext Here.'

He had an x-rated encounter with Eliza Dushku one night that wasn't too hard for him to figure out. Another about Sam and Eliza that was a little harder to understand. After, that is, Dean got over the squick factor inherent in watching his little brother have sex. Even shadowy, dream sex with a girl neither of them have ever met. Still, not something Dean would want to see again.

Ever, ever again.

He dreams he's in the desert a lot. Alone, always alone, Sam and their dad gone, somewhere, Dean never knows and never finds out. He just wanders under the hot sun until the sand gives way beneath his feet and he falls into the earth, no time to scream, no time to breathe, just gone, silent and alone.

Caffeine fails to cure that next day crankiness.

…………

"Come on. We have to go."

"You go."

"Why? So you can sit here and drive yourself crazy for another hour? I don't think so."

"How can you- Just go away, Dean. Leave me alone."

"How can I what, Sam?"

"Nothing."

"No. Say it. How can I what?"

"How can you act like nothing happened? These people are dead, Dean, because of us."

"I know."

"You know? That's it? That's all? You _know_?"

"Yes, Sam, I know. I recognize the fact that we fucked up, that _I _fucked up, and they're dead because of that."

"It wasn't just you-"

"We tried, Sam. We tried our best. But sometimes, sometimes that's not good enough. Sometimes people die no matter how hard we try to save them, and we just, we keep trying. We keep going. We work harder, and maybe. Maybe the next time we'll be better. We'll be faster and smarter and they won't die. We just."

"Dean…"

"Come on. We have to go. Dad sent us new coordinates."

"Dean, I. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too."

…………

She reminds Dean of his mother. Not physically. Her hair's black and straight, cut into a choppy little bob that's streaked with red, and she's shorter and thinner than his mother was, too. It's just. It's _something_. Maybe her smile. It's soft and a little crooked as she hands Dean his cup of coffee, and he feels himself smile in return.

He almost asks Sam about it when she walks away, asks if he feels it too, this similarity, this something, but he doesn't. All Sam remembers about their mother is a picture, and this is something else.

Dean's felt it before, a few times in his life. Once when he was twenty and recuperating from a broken leg given to him by a werewolf that didn't take too kindly to Dean shooting him in the ass with a tranquilizer dart. The girl who came in to change the sheets and check his vitals spoke in a slow Southern accent, nothing like his mother's Midwestern twang, but she moved with the same sort of grace, slow and steady and it set Dean at ease in a way he hadn't been in a long time.

Again at Manitoc with Andrea. He thinks about her and Lucas sometimes, wonders what would have happened if he could have stayed, wonders what it means that for a second, just for a second, he _wanted_ to stay.

He wants to talk to this girl, the one with the soft smile and the red hair, find out how she ended up in such a crap town, find out what she wants to do in life, who she wants to be, but he can't. He knows this. This is a pit stop only, a smile and a thank you and a may I have the check please, and that's all. There's more he needs to do, more evil he needs to fight, and he can't do that if he stays.

He's all right with this most of the time. He has a mission. People to protect, his brother most of all. He has a duty to his father and that's what matters.

Dean knows Sam was right, though. Knows this isn't the life that Mary Winchester would've wanted for her boys. But his mother's gone, and this is all Dean has.

This, and Sam.

…………

The Mossberg and his .45.

His father's journal and a bag of rock salt.

His necklace, his jacket.

His Winchester, cocked, locked, and ready to go.

The Impala, his baby, up and running, engine rumble like a siren's cry.

And Sam.

Always Sam.

…………

"Okay. The Bride, Sarah Connor, and Ellen Ripley."

"The Bride."

"Of course. What is it with you and knives, man?"

"I don't know. What is it with you and guns?"

"Have you _seen _that ammo I got from Caleb?"

"You've only shown them to me three times. Of course I've seen them."

"And you don't think they're cool? Not even a little bit? A tiny, tiny smidge of a bit?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe? Just maybe?"

"All right. They're cool. Happy now?"

"There's hope for you yet, young Sammy."

…………

Dean loves his brother, but he doesn't understand him. It's not that Sam goes around spouting off five-syllable college words that Dean doesn't know or anything. It's just, Dean has never met anybody who could be as open and as closed off as Sam is every single day, no matter what.

Besides their father, that is.

John Winchester could get anyone, _anyone_,the local law enforcement, a random waitress, kids, teenagers, old people, anyone, to trust him within five minutes of meeting him while simultaneously closing out Sam and Dean from what was going on inside his head so effectively Dean sometimes wondered whether his dad retained the ability to communicate at all.

And Sam's the same way. How he connects to people, how they, in turn, respond to him, fascinates Dean as much as his exclusion from Sam's thoughts frustrates him to the point where he wants to hit something. Hard.

Preferably Sam.

It's not that Dean wants to have long, drawn out conversations with his brother about their feelings. He'd rather shoot himself in the foot with one of his exploding shells than talk about that. It's just, Dean wants to understand. His brother, however, defies any and all attempts at comprehension and has for his entire freaking life.

Sam has the chance to learn Judo, to learn how to defend himself and kick some serious ass while doing it, and what does he want to do?

Play soccer.

He has the chance to walk away, to find Dad and get the revenge he wants, but what does he do?

He stays with Dean.

Not that Dean isn't grateful to Sam for staying. He is, and not just because it meant that he didn't end up dead at the hands of some murderous, apple-loving scarecrow.

He's grateful because it means he still has the chance to understand.

He's grateful because it means Sam cares as much for Dean as Dean does for Sam, and that, that means more to Dean than anything else in the world.

He's grateful because it means he's not alone, he's not wandering the plains of Middle America until the road gives way beneath his feet and he sinks beneath the blow of some malevolent force, no time to scream, no time to breathe, just gone, silent and alone.

He's grateful Sam chose to stay because he loves his brother, even if he doesn't understand him. But Dean doesn't need to understand. Not yet. He has Sam, and for now, that's enough.

………..

end


End file.
